


For Those Who Come To San Francisco

by Felgia_Starr, NuclearNik



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abortion, Accidental Pregnancy, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Hippies, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Co-Written, F/M, One Night Stands, Prompt Fic, Recreational Drug Use, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 16:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17450297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felgia_Starr/pseuds/Felgia_Starr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearNik/pseuds/NuclearNik
Summary: Hermione Granger is a gentle woman with plenty of flowers in her hair, wanting to change the world for the better. She hopes to find and befriend like-minded people. Draco Malfoy is a psychedelic artist who just wants to get away from his parents and see the beauty of the world for his own. He hopes to find peace and contentedness before he leaves for the war.What happens when they bump into each other one beautiful day in Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco during the summer of love?





	For Those Who Come To San Francisco

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is written for the Dramione Fanfiction Writers' Triwizard Tournament Fest Task 2. The title comes from 'San Francisco' by The Mamas and the Papas.
> 
> This story is very close to our hearts. With a lot of research, we wrote something we're really proud of. We hope you enjoy this labour of love.
> 
> Also, much beta love to RoryEgg for sticking with us throughout our admittedly painful journey. We couldn't have done it without you, dearie!
> 
> Disclaimer: We do not own any part of the Harry Potter Franchise

_"For those who come to San Francisco, summertime will be a love-in there  
In the streets of San Francisco, gentle people with flowers in their hair."_

* * *

“So it begins.” The familiar voice of her roommate shook Hermione out of her consuming thoughts.  
  
Placing the neatly-folded paisley skirt in the trunk at the end of her bed, she turned to see Fay, smiling cheekily.  
  
“Summer break, baby doll.” Whimsical in nature, Fay was a strong-willed woman with a good heart and a special love for sports. “It’s finally here!”  
  
“Yeah,” Hermione mumbled. She went back to packing up, not nearly as excited as Fay was for the upcoming summer holiday. She had no places to go. Since she could hardly pay for her own meals, she knew she would have to find another job now that school was out. “Where are you going for the summer?”  
  
“Well, my friends and I plan on going to Haight-Ashbury,” Fay answered. “We want to see if it’s as twitchin’ as the newspapers say it is.”  
  
Hermione perked up. “What’s so great about Haight-Ashbury? I don’t even know where that is.”  
  
Fay gave her a fake shocked look. “I can’t believe that _you_ —the queen of peace and love— don’t know what’s going on down there!”  
  
“I’m not caught up with the popular culture, I’m afraid.” Hermione fully turned her attention to Fay,  
  
“Well, for starters, it’s a neighbourhood in San Francisco,” Fay began, drawing out her words slowly as if she were talking to a child.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, just lay it on me already, won’t you?”  
  
Fay laughed, the sound reminding Hermione of an easier time. “It’s where all the kids flake off to. The place is full of hippies—you’d fit in perfectly, Granger.”  
  
“I’m not—I’m not a hippie.” Hermione frowned.  
  
“Sure you are,” Fay insisted. “You’re always preaching about peace, aren’t you? And freedom? And equal opportunities and rights? I bet most of them are just like you in there.”  
  
“What does the press say about them?”  
  
Fay rolled her pale blue eyes, waving a dismissive hand. “The same thing they say about people who don’t conform to their bullshit. The press paints us all the same—a bunch of unhinged children addicted to drugs and obsessed with going against the government because we have nothing better to do.”  
  
“But I thought you said the papers say it’s hip and happening over there?”  
  
“Anything the news is afraid of is great, sweet dove.” Fay grinned the brightest smile, one that could light up the whole country. “I say ‘fuck ‘em’.”  
  
Fay was the first friend Hermione had ever made after moving to the U.S. When her own parents died, she lived with her sickly grandmother in a quiet village. A bit shy, she’d been unsure of how people would treat her in America, being foreign and of a darker complexion. Fay was the first to show her that the cover of the book wasn't important. It was what was inside, on the pages, that mattered in the long run. She taught Hermione how to love herself even when nobody else did.  
  
“What are you doing for the summer?” asked Fay.  
  
Shaking herself from her wistful thoughts, she looked at Fay “I think I’ll have to work anywhere that can offer room and board. I don’t have much money, just the scholarship, which only gets me through the school year and I don’t think—”  
  
“Just come to San Francisco with us,” interrupted Fay. “Lavender’s uncle got a studio apartment there— he’s gone for the summer. Lav’s letting us all crash there. I’m sure one more won’t matter.”  
  
“I don’t really think Lavender would like me to come with you,” said Hermione, voicing her concern. Lavender Brown was a beautiful, blonde Barbie doll. When Hermione arrived at Berkeley, the girl had made her distaste known. Lavender would stiffen up every time Hermione entered a room, as though she felt unsafe with her being there.  
  
Fay snorted. “Don’t worry about it, ‘Mione. I’ll convince her. And her uncle’s cool—split off from his own family a few years back. He’s a dove, too, honey”  
  
Hermione nodded slowly. "Hmm, alright.”  
  
“Now, are you coming with us or not? There’ll be plenty of vodka; you’ll love it!”  
  
Hermione grinned. She’d taken quite a liking to liquor after getting out from her grandmother's thumb. She figured now was the time to have fun and experiment, while she was young and free. There was something calming about being able to clear your head from problems for a single night. She knew that she was taking her health for granted, but there was a certain comfort alcohol provided that nothing else could.

 “For the drinks, I’m saying yes—I’ll come with you to Haight-Ashbury for the summer, Miss Fay.”

* * *

Draco Malfoy’s dinner plate was a full one, filled with meat, fish, and vegetables he couldn’t pronounce to save his life. A bowl of onion soup sat right beside his plate, now cold. Utensils were left untouched. His appetite was nowhere to be found.

He knew the moment he entered the dining room that he wouldn’t be able to eat tonight. And now, he’d been staring so long at his plate that he was slowly memorizing it. A few more minutes and he could sketch the image of his full supper from memory alone.  
  
“Draco,” his mother’s soft yet disappointed tone snapped him out of thoughts, forcing him to go back to the situation in which he was being held.  
  
Oh, that’s right. His parents were lecturing him. He wasn’t doing well in school. With no motivation and seeing it as another way to spite his parents, he flaked off more than he actually attended class.  He’d tuned them out as soon as he’d sat down, but apparently his mother was getting better at calling him out of his zone.  
  
“Listen to us please.”  
  
Draco heard his father scoff. “An incompetent boy, truly.”  
  
There was no point in trying to defend himself. They were both lawyers, for Christ’s sake. They were so argumentative and pretentious that sometimes their house felt more like a courtroom than a home. But then again, how could he grow up in a courtroom and still fail law school?  
  
“You ought to remember your roots, boy,” his father prattled on. Lucius Malfoy mainly ranted about two things—their rich and pure family history and their would-be rich and pure family legacy. Frankly, Draco never cared for either of them. “You come from prosperous political roots, Draco. My father and his father before him have all been lawgivers and lawyers. And the Black family has helped shape this State for over a century now. The least you could do is respect our ancestors and uphold the family name.”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes, having heard the exact same sentences a million times. “I’m not meant to be a lawyer, Dad—or a lawgiver or a judge or a doctor or the fucking governor—”  
  
“You don’t have to use such foul language, Draco,” his mother scolded.

That was what his mother was good at, scolding everyone that didn’t conform to her beliefs. It was her special talent, he supposed, because she’d convicted a lot of people that he was sure were innocent by twisting her words and making them feel guilty as shit.  
  
“And what exactly are you meant to be?” His father sneered, continuing. “A painter? Is that what God has destined for you? A starving artist? Have some self-respect.”  
  
So that was what this was all about. Of course. No matter what they conversed about, everything always inevitably turned to his art. He couldn’t even properly greet them in the morning without one of them making condescending comments about it.  
  
He honestly didn’t know what their problem was. Had they failed art class in their youth, or something? They utterly abhorred the creative arts; they thought that it was lazy and classless. They thought everything and everyone who weren’t like them were lazy and classless. They couldn’t see anything beyond their own inflated egos.  
  
He felt something touch his hand; directing his attention to the movement. Draco saw his mother’s gloved hand resting on top of his. Who wore gloves to a casual family dinner, anyway?  
  
“Your father is right, Draco,” she spoke softly, a small frown forming on her brows. “I know that it is your...passion, but I’m afraid it will not get you anywhere but the slums, my dragon. I know that it does not seem like it, but we only want the best for you.”  
  
Draco scowled, refusing to acknowledge his mother’s words. Narcissa Black-Malfoy was quite adept at lying through the sweetest of smiles, and he knew his parents didn’t want the best for him—they wanted him to follow in their footsteps and be exactly like them. He’d had enough of it. His parents were the complete opposite of the person he aspired to be.  
  
Truth be told, Draco didn’t have many aspirations. He wasn’t much of a daydreamer, never enjoyed wishing something would happen. Whenever he’d think of doing something, he’d normally just do it. He had never planned nor prayed for anything. When he was younger, he had dutifully followed whatever it was his parents demanded of him. As soon as he was old enough to think for himself, Draco had been determined not to turn out like his parents. In fact, he’d intended to be the kind of person they would be intimidated by.  
  
“You don’t understand, Mom,” he mumbled. “Painting _is_ good for me. I would lose my mind in law school if I stayed.”  
  
“That’s because you’re an imbecile,” his father chimed in, the way he enunciated the words making Draco feel worthless. “If you are going to continue embarrassing this family with your constant failures then I suggest you go take my handgun upstairs and shoot yourself in the head because I cannot see any other reason for you to pursue a living—”  
  
“Lucius,” his mother was furious yet still appeared calm as she sent his father a warning,  
  
Draco sunk into himself, ignoring the pain in his chest that flashed every time his father spoke. Telling himself he wasn’t hurt at all. Convincing himself that he felt great, actually.  
  
“What?” Lucius turned to his wife. “It’s our money he’s spending every day. It’s _our_ money that kept him in school. It’s _our_ money that keeps him alive, being the useless boy he is. Do you suppose he’ll convince the draft board to let him off by painting for them? We’re losing money because of him. If he goes off to some godforsaken shithole country, how do you think he’s going to pay us back?”  
  
Draco didn’t care to listen to the argument, having already tuned out the sound of their yelling. He didn’t bother dwelling on whatever they’d said about him. His mind was already made up. He’d bug out, hang with the hippies in San Fran for the summer, paint to his heart's content and then do his duty and enlist, giving himself more options than if he waited to be drafted. This was his one chance to escape his father's iron fist, a chance to have a purpose.  
  
Painting made him considerably calmer. Coupled with a good trip and he was suddenly the happiest man on Earth. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to get his hands on some acid at this very moment.  
  
He snapped his gaze back to his quarrelling parents, studying them in fascination. Narcissa was outraged. Glowering and hissing, his mother made a breath-taking angry woman, as she always had. Lucius’s expression implicated boredom, though. He remained in his seat and refused to look at his fuming wife, only occasionally scoffing at her words.  
  
Draco wondered the same things he always wondered whenever he’d stare at them—did they love him? What would his life be like if he had different parents? Would they miss him if he were to disappear out of nowhere?  
  
“Maybe we should’ve made another son.”  
  
That sealed the deal. He didn’t even know who said it, but he was done. He couldn’t wait to leave all this bullshit behind him.  
  
Draco promptly pushed himself away from the table and stood up, having already made his decision.

* * *

Waiting until his parents were deeply lost in sleep, Draco went to pack a rucksack. He mostly packed his art supplies, a change of clothes, a little canvas tent, and any important papers he would need.  
  
He was 20 years old. If he asked anybody else, they’d say he should’ve been free two years ago. He _would’ve_ moved out when he was 18, but his parents had adamantly refused to let him go, the oh-so-caring and loving family they were. It was all an act. They didn’t care—they wanted to control his life.  
  
Finished with packing,  he padded towards his parents’ bedroom. To make his getaway, he’d need a bit of money—and his parents had all the money in the world, or so they bragged.  
  
His parents usually left their bedroom door open whenever they slept—it was a strange habit they’d fallen into way before Draco was conceived—making it simple to slip in quietly.  
  
Knowing his mother, she would most likely wake up at the smallest creaks of their closet opening, so Draco settled for the hidden compartment under the carpet. His father didn't much trust banks, keeping secret stores around the house. Gently, he pulled up the loose floorboard,  finding a small metal box. Opening it, he pulled out a wad of cash, stuffing it into his pocket. He quickly made sure to put everything back in its place, lest his thievery be obvious tomorrow when his parents would find out he was gone.  
  
He didn’t know how he ended up at their front door without getting caught, but he took it as a sign and so, with a single turn of the doorknob, Draco was free.

* * *

There was an electric feeling in the air and it coursed through her veins, sending a long-lasting rush of excitement throughout her entire body.  
  
Way past buzzed and head in the clouds, Hermione made her way across the expanse of Golden Gate Park, in awe at the sheer amount of bodies. She felt more at home here than she ever had, surrounded by so many like-minded people—people who cared about peace and justice. Just earlier in the day she’d had a fascinating conversation with a group she’d just met, debating the intentions of the U.S. government sending all these men to war, whether the inhumane treatment of innocent people in Vietnam was the fault of the government, what should be done, what could be changed.

Here she was free from the rigid stress she put on herself during the school year. Free enough to let loose. Perhaps a bit more than she should. She was well on her way to pissed and fairly happy about it. Barefoot and soaking up the California sunshine, she twirled about, bopping along to the music floating down from the stage up on the hill.

_“There'll be laughing and singing, music swinging_

_And dancing in the streets”_

She wondered, then, if this was what contentment felt like.

Heel catching on a stone, she tripped backwards and stumbled, narrowly avoiding face-planting into someone’s easel. In her flailing she smacked something solid, and as she turned to apologize she felt the breath leave her lungs.  
  
There was a bloke standing there staring at her.

The easel must be his. He looked like a lost angel, sunlight shining a halo behind his head, blonde hair so light it was nearly white, dreamy eyes looking down at her.  
  
At the realization that she was now doing little more than drooling over the poor sod, she took a deep breath in.

“Hello there!” she slurred, “I am so sorry I hit you. I was dancing, you see, and I tripped on a rock, and, well, you saw. Anyway,” she paused, looking down at her fiddling fingers, “sorry again. That’s a lovely painting you’ve got there.”

Hermione was a happy drunk, words bubbling out of her like water from a fountain. He said nothing through her mumbling, just kept blinking at her, like he wasn’t sure she was really there.

“I’m Hermione. Very nice to meet you.”

Silence.

A bit annoyed now, she waved her hands in a general “and you are?” gesture, waiting for a response from the mute man before her.

“Draco.”

“As in the Latin for dragon?” She asked.  “Groovy name!”

“Hermione,” he replied casually. “Daughter of Helen of Troy.”

“You know Greek mythology. I'm impressed.”

He smiled at her, his straight white teeth all lined up in a row.

Through the corner of her eye, she saw him raise his hand to her hair. Blissed out from the Smirnoff and whatever had been passed around earlier, she let him touch his fingers to a curl, marvelling at the reverence she saw in his gaze.  
  
“Are you real?” whispered Draco, his eyes still lost in a trance.  
  
Hermione giggled at his expression. “Yes—or at least I think so. I’m not so sure now that you’ve asked me.”  
  
“Wow,” he said, seemingly having lost the ability to let go of her hair. “You are really pretty... And your voice...”  
  
She burst into a fit of laughter.  Her cheeks warmed, but she knew it was because of the alcohol. It must be. Right?

“I’m English, silly goose.” She teased, still laughing.  
  
Soon, Draco joined in. “I can’t believe you.”  
  
She grinned. “Can’t believe I’m foreign?”  
  
“No. I can’t believe you’re real.” Draco’s chuckles fell into a soft, almost goofy smile. “I mean, how are you here with me of all people—how are you real? You’re just so... Almost unearthly. Impossibly beautiful.”  
  
His hands travelled to her face, fingers running along her skin as though he were committing her features to memory. Blushing even more, Hermione gently pulled his hands away.

“You’re a very strange man, Draco. I like it.”  
  
He shrugged, his smile widening. “Thank you.”  
  
She decided then that she had found a friend and stayed by his side through the afternoon. And she spent it dancing, laughing, telling him jokes as he painted brilliant, swirling colours on the canvas and she found that she never wanted the moment to end for as long as she lived.

* * *

The day was waning, though the throaty rasp of electric guitars could still be heard.

He finished his painting a while ago, a kaleidoscope of colours and textures that made up the face of the otherworldly creature now sitting on his lap. He was pretty sure he was just on a really good trip, and that when he woke up in the morning he’d discover she was a figment of his imagination all along.

Moonlight broke through the clouds, lighting up her face as she shifted a little, turning toward him. She just looked at him, eyes half closed.

Slowly, so slowly he wasn’t even sure she was moving, she pressed her lips to his.

She tasted like freedom, like nirvana. If he wasn’t high already, he’d be long gone from the drugging kisses she was feeding him. As she wrapped her legs around his hips, he struggled to stand, not willing to stop their make-out session for even a moment. Stumbling towards the tent he had haphazardly pitched—his rational brain out to lunch—he succumbed to the heat burning between them.

* * *

The first thing Draco noticed after regaining consciousness was hair on his face. He had a feeling that it was the reason why he’d woken up in the first place - the obscene amount of hair made his whole face itch.

He spat out the strands that had somehow entered his mouth, foggy headed and mildly irritated.  
  
Suddenly remembering that he didn’t have hair this long and thick, his eyes shot open. His arm was wrapped around a female body.

Realizing this, Draco pushed himself up to get a better look at whoever it was sharing his bed.  
  
His jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”

The woman he had just been wrapped around was his beautiful mirage from yesterday.  
  
Actually, to say that she was merely beautiful would be a criminal understatement. She was exquisite. Her lips were perfect, her nose was perfect, her shut eyelids were perfect— everything about her was perfect. Her brown curls framing her soft, freckled face were perfect...  
  
_“Wow._ ” He would love to paint her again, knowing that he couldn’t have captured her likeness correctly in his acid-addled mind last night. Yes. He needed to paint her again—maybe even individual paintings for each feature of hers that he found he liked best. He’d gift them all to her, of course, though he would have to make sure that he kept at least one drawing of her face before he left the country.  
  
“Draco?” a feminine voice snapped him from his internal ramblings.  
  
He felt his lips curling upwards as he continued to stare at her sleepy, confused expression.

“Hermione.”  
  
She burrowed deeper under the quilt, attempting to get more comfortable as she mumbled, “Did we have sex?”  
  
Chuckling at her blunt inquiry, Draco nodded. “I’m pretty sure we did, yeah. Do you remember?”  
  
“I think so,” she replied, narrowing her brown eyes at him in suspicion. “Why are you sitting so far away?”  
  
“No reason at all.”  
  
“Well, c’mere,” she softly demanded.  
  
“Okay.”  He crawled towards her, still marvelling at her allure. When he was finally next to her, face-to-face and as close to each other as possible without touching, Draco couldn’t help but grin again. “Now what?”  
  
“You’re so pale,” she observed, placing a hand on the side of his face. “Was this the first time you ever went out in the sun?”  
  
He laughed. “No.”  
  
“Well, you look dead,” she teased, smirking. When her lips quirked to one side, his eyes focused on her mouth. His heartbeat quickened, his mind lost every thought that didn’t have anything to do with her, and he was utterly bewitched. He didn’t understand, was he still high? How could such a small gesture turn him on this much?  
  
It would be a sin not to kiss her right now, and while Draco was not one to go to church every Sunday, he wouldn’t want to commit more sins than absolutely necessary.  
  
He leaned closer and claimed her tempting lips. He felt as though his own lips were finally home, as though his mouth was made to fit against hers. It just felt so right. He didn’t normally spout this flowery bullshit, even in his head, but there was something about this girl, this siren that fucked with his mind.  
  
They came together once more, hands on skin, mouths biting, sucking, kissing—until they fell asleep again, happily exhausted.

* * *

Draco woke slowly, head pounding. Sunlight could be seen through the hole in the tent and the air was warm with summer heat.  

This time, there was no girl in his arms. Unexpected panic rolled through his chest, and he quickly sat up, eyes searching the small space.

His shoulders slumped in relief when he spotted her in the corner, sitting with her legs crossed and looking through some of his sketches. A sliver of annoyance prickled at him as noticed his art supplies scattered carelessly around. He didn’t like people touching his things. He wasn’t good at sharing.  
  
Frowning, he greeted, “Hey.”  
  
She glanced at him, smiling slightly. “Hey. Are you alright?”  
  
“Yeah, you?”  
  
“I’m great.” Only then he realized that she was already fully-dressed in the clothes she wore yesterday.  
  
Fumbling around for his briefs, he casually asked her, “What are you looking at?”  
  
“Your drawings,” she replied. “You’re really talented, you know?”  
  
Draco stood, pulling his jeans over his legs, and throwing a wink in her direction. “Why yes, I _do_ know that.”  
  
She laughed at his arrogance. “Have you thought about selling your work?”  
  
“Not really,” he said. “It’s just my way of escaping life when it gets too harsh. When I hold a paintbrush, I feel content—I feel like I could create a world of my own, a beautiful world, a world without pain or suffering.”  
  
He let himself get distracted by her soft smile. It wasn’t every day a girl like her smiled at him fondly. Girls mostly thought of him as a deadbeat. Hermione must be one of a kind.  
  
“It’s your passion,” she commented.  
  
“Yeah. And a lot of people think it’s the only thing I’m actually good at.”  
  
“I’m sure that’s not true.”  
  
Draco shrugged. “To them, it is.”  
  
She set his sketches aside.  
  
“Is that why you came here?” asked Hermione. “To connect with other artistic people?”  
  
He snorted, choosing to lie back down on his makeshift bed. “No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“I’m not that deep, Hermione,” he explained. “I couldn’t give two shits about other people’s paintings.”  
  
“Well, why did you come here then?”  
  
Draco heaved a sigh, mentally preparing himself for the “poor little rich boy” judgement that was likely to come.

“I ran away from home. My parents are... controlling, to say the least. They hate that I’m more passionate about painting than law school—I mean, who the hell is passionate about law school, anyway? They’re all dead inside from what I saw. They said that I’ll get nowhere in life if I don’t become a lawyer yadda-yadda-yadda. Long story short, I ripped off some money from my parents to go here—to live the best life I could—before I enlist. What about you?”  
  
Hermione didn’t respond immediately, causing Draco to look up at her in curiosity. Her lips were pinched, eyebrows pulled down together, and her previously soft gaze was now hard.  
  
Well, she certainly looked unhappy. He wasn’t particularly good at deciphering women’s expressions, but he could clearly see that she was not at all pleased with the situation. He wondered why.  
  
“What made you come here?” He sat up slowly, staring at her warily as if she were a snake, coiled to strike.  
  
Her scowl deepened. “I had nowhere else to go—you said you were enlisting?”  
  
“Yeah.” Draco ran a hand through his hair, wondering when he’d get a chance to hold a hairbrush again. He hadn’t thought to throw one in his bag when he left.  
  
“Why?”  
  
He was taken aback by the anger underlying her tone, but he explained, “Well for one, it’s a chance for me to see the world. You know, the _real_ part of the world that’s not owned by my parents—”  
  
“What?” Hermione shook her head in disbelief. She looked utterly pissed off. “You’re going to war just because you have some sort of grudge against your parents?”  
  
“That’s not—”  
  
“You’re going to shoot people just because—” she cut herself off with a furious gasp, “—because your father doesn’t like your paintings? Oh poor you.”  
  
“It’s not about that.” continued Draco, glaring at Hermione as she continued to dismiss his words. “It’s a noble cause.”  
  
“But it’s so wrong,” she passionately rebutted, “and so immoral. How can you—how would you be able to live with yourself knowing that there are thousands of people dying in that war because they just _had_ to fight? And what about those _you’re_ going to murder?”  
  
“I’m not a heartless killer,” he defended. “I’m not going to run through villages, guns ablazing—”  
  
“You’re not a killer but you’re going to run off to fight someone else’s war?” Hermione chuckled bitterly, the harsh tone making him wince. “You’re not actually immoral, are you? You’re just an idiot.”  
  
“I’m not an idiot!” he shouted, having enough of those familiar words from his own father. “It’s _my_ duty. I want to fight for my country. I’m likely to be drafted anyway when the time comes, and I want control of my choices. That’s what I’m gonna do, whether you, or anybody else, like it or not.”  
  
“I can’t believe you came here, of all places, with your pro-violence bullshit.”  
  
“What exactly do you imagine happening, in your perfect world? We all just hold hands and sing kumbaya?” he spat. “That’s not the way it works. Wars are fought when words fail. Expecting people intent on spreading oppression and evil to just lay down their weapons because of a good speech is naïve and dangerous.”

“You’re simplifying it and you know it. It takes more than talk. It takes cooperation and positive action. Violence begets violence, Draco. It’s an endless cycle.”

“Turning belly up is not a solution. If we don’t stand up and fight, things get worse. I’m ready to die if that’s what it takes. And I’ll go out with honour, be remembered.”  
  
She snorted dismissively. “Or maybe you’ll die alone in a jungle, blasted to bits and your body will never be brought back home again. Have you thought about that?”  
  
“Shut up.” Draco’s glare intensified, heart pounding hard enough to rattle his ribs, fingers forcing themselves into shaking fists. “At least I’m trying to do something. You cry about peace, but what have you actually done to make this world a better place?”  
  
“If you think that fighting a war makes the world a better place, then you’re not ready to fight a war at all.”  
  
They sat still for a moment, chests heaving, worked up and staring each other down. With a resigned sigh, Hermione shuffled to him on her knees, the sound loud in the silence.  
  
She cupped his face, and it took all of his willpower to not flinch away from her. “It’s not about me, Draco, nor it is about you. It’s about the whole of humanity, do you understand? Think of all the damage that this war can do to the world and its people. Only then should you ask if it’s all worth it—the pain, the suffering, the people driven out of their homes— _everything_. Is it really worth it?”  
  
Feeling her hands against his cheeks made all his rage dissipate, though disappointment shortly followed it. He’d thought that she would be different, that she would be able to understand, but in reality, she was just another person who wanted him to conform to her own ideals, to control him and his beliefs.  
  
“It’s a necessary evil.”  
  
When she gathered her things and left his tent soon after, Draco couldn’t find it in himself to call out her name or chase her.

* * *

Tapping a pencil in time to the melody in her head, Hermione sat in the overstuffed armchair tucked in a corner, right next to a big window with a view of the revelry still going on in the streets. She’d made it a habit to go over her schedule for the next few weeks. She'd found a part-time job, waiting tables just a few blocks down from where she was staying. The tips were good sometimes but it didn't leave her with much. She kept a tight budget. As she scanned the calendar, something caught her eye. Like a needle scratching across a record, the tune she was humming came to an abrupt stop. She blinked and looked again, sure she'd misread.

She'd missed her cycle.

She'd always been incredibly regular, same time each month. A frisson of panic flew up her spine.

“Oh God,” she whispered, “oh my God.”

The summer so far had been a blur. Pot was plentiful and passed around freely. There was no shortage of her favourite liquor. Who had she slept with? She thought back to all the times she’d been out of her mind, three sheets to the wind. Self-hatred burned a hole in her belly. She’d been in a drunken, stoned stupor much of the time, partying with her friends when she wasn't working her waitressing shifts.

She shifted to the logical side of her brain, packing up the panic and putting it in a box. How many times had she fallen into someone’s arms, high on life and sometimes acid? She’d been in Haight-Ashbury for a month and a half now. Methodically, she sifted through her memories, using the pieces to form a picture.

It was one, right?

_‘Yeah, just the one.’_

The sad one, the paint-splattered angel who made love to her until they were both soaring. The avenging angel so ready to bleed, to fight someone else’s war.

But, if she is pregnant— _“God, please no”_ — could she take away the father’s right to know? They were so different. There was no reconciling their opposing views, in her mind. How would he react to this sort of news? What if he spat in her face and wanted nothing to do with her or the kid they had accidentally made? Why should she even give him the chance?

She knew her mindset was now far from rational, but she couldn’t centre herself, couldn’t keep calm as her shoulders started to shake.

She closed the notebook, let her head thump against the window, and cried.

* * *

She waited two weeks.

Still nothing. The panic began to consume her. While working one day, as she was bringing a sandwich to the table in the corner, she heard some people talking about a walk-in clinic that had been temporarily set up in the Mission District. “Pay as you can sort of thing,” the chick said. It piqued her interest.

When her shift was done, she made her way to the Mission district. The woman running the clinic had kind eyes and smile lines carved deep around her mouth.

Hermione went through the motions, doing everything the nurse told her and feeling like she was looking down on herself from above. After it was done, she was told to come back in a few days for results.

When she got home, she vomited in the sink. She prayed it was just nerves.

Acid crawled up her throat as she went about her days, feeling like she was waiting for her turn at the guillotine.

When she returned to the clinic, the woman with the kind eyes wasn’t there. An old man, with a rather nasty countenance, looked down his nose at her as he told her the results.

She was pregnant.

* * *

In a shady corner of a park, Draco attempted to paint away his feelings. He was sullen and annoyingly sober, speaking to no one. Art had always been his escape; his peaceful, happy place. He was desperate for some peace.

Head down, laser-focused on his work, he didn’t see anyone approaching until he felt a tap on his shoulder. Irritated at the interruption, he spun around, ready to give out his best verbal lashing. Instead, he stopped dead in his tracks. Before him stood the girl from that night. That out-of-this-world, hallucination filled, _perfect_ night that he couldn’t help replaying over and over again in his head.

He wished he could say he forgot her name, that he’d put her far out of his mind.

But that would be a lie.  

Standing there, wild hair flying in every direction, she looked like a deity, surely come to earth to smite him for his sins.

She was fidgeting, shifting side to side, picking at her fingernails. Clearly, she was nervous about something, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he was not going to like what she had to say.

“We need to talk.” She wouldn’t look him in the eye, instead finding the grass incredibly riveting.

Starting to feel a bit sick, he was civil as he said, “Alright. We’ll talk. But first, I have something to say. I get that you think I'm some sort of monster, but you need to check your pride and look beyond your own beliefs. I wish things could be different and I'm sorry if my personal decisions have offended you, but at the end of the day, they are my decisions to make. My mind was made up long before I met you. Just... just know that I never meant to upset you.”

Her eyes snapped to his, seeming to gauge his sincerity. She nodded, once, and he took that as acceptance.

She squared her shoulders, looking around a bit frantically, finding the area they were in secluded and apparently private enough for whatever it was she was planning to unburden upon him.

“Lay it on me.”

Looking at a spot directly to the left of his ear, she breathed in deeply and said,

“I’m pregnant.”

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. He was suddenly lightheaded, vision blurry, like a bad high though he was as sober as a Catholic grandmother.

He tried to speak, but his throat was bone dry and he couldn’t get words out.

He stared as she continued to speak.

“Before you say whatever it is you might want to spit out, I’ve not been with anyone else. I’ve had some benders, yes, as I’m sure you have as well. I’ve been with friends nearly every night. Except for the night we, you know...”

“Fucked.” There, he’d found his voice to add that incredibly profound remark.

She gave him a scathing look worthy of a schoolmarm. “There’s no need to be crude.”

“I can’t have a kid, Hermione! I’m a college dropout about to ship off to the middle of bum fuck nowhere. I just got loose from my parents, only to have a baby rule my life? So I can follow in their footsteps and stay stuck in the same damn rut? I've got 37 bucks and a joint in my pocket—the fuck am I supposed to do with a kid?”

“You listen to me, and you listen well. You put this baby in me! You share the blame for what we’ve now created. I understand the fear, I have it too. But don’t you dare try to pass this off onto me like you had no part in it!

“What do we do? Do we get married?”

“Just what all little girls dream of—a man to wed on obligation alone. A fairytale, truly.”

Though she kept her voice even, there was a fire burning in her eyes.

“I'm trying to do the right thing here. I'm as lost as you. Don't turn this around on me.”

He raised his eyes to the sky as if by doing so the answer would fall to their feet and he would know exactly what to do, what to say.

“Well? What are the other options? Get rid of it?” The second the words left his mouth he regretted them, but he was stuck in a cyclone of anger and confusion, falling more out of control by the minute.

“Get rid of it? Like all I’m doing is taking out the rubbish bin! This is a baby, you fucking wanker. Yours and mine.” She poked a bony finger at his shoulder. “This is serious shite, what we’re talking about. Dredge up a just sliver of respect for the severity of this situation from your empty heart, won’t you?

He ran a hand over his face, trying to stay calm.

“What do you want from me? Money? Fucking fine. I don’t have much left, you can have it all.”

“Oh, piss off. I don’t want your bloody money. I want nothing. I just, I thought you deserved to know. ”

“Yeah, wicked, now I know.” Bitterness rolled through him, rendering him unable to filter the words that poured out.

The furious sprite before him scoffed and shook her head at his nonchalance.

“Whatever. Goodbye, Draco. Thanks for nothing.” With that, she spun on her heel and strode away, leaving him, and likely never to be seen again.

For some odd reason, that thought didn’t elate him like he thought it would. Instead, it sat sour in his stomach.

* * *

As a little girl imagining what her life might be like when she grew up, this particular scenario had never crossed her mind. Sitting in someone's uncle's little flat, alone, knocked up, scratching words in the blank columns of a pros and cons list. Holding the fate of an unborn child—holding her own fate—in the palm of her hand.

How could she care for a baby? She would love it certainly. There was no doubt in her mind about that. Trouble was, a child couldn’t be raised on love and only love. She was alone in America—alone in the world, really—with no family to call on, a ten dollar bill to her name, and two years of education still ahead.

All this because of a stupid, vodka-soaked mistake. She liked to drink, but she was usually more careful. Though she had long ago thrown away the societal shame that came from choosing what she did with her own body, she didn’t sleep around indiscriminately.  
  
Hermione prided herself on her intelligence and common sense. A bitter huff of laughter escaped her. So much for those street smarts. She’d tossed all that right out the window when drunkenly faced with the temptation of a beautiful, artsy, American boy.

An ugly, black word stared at her from where it was written in her notebook.

_Abortion_

She’d heard plenty on the topic. It was a hot button issue, a fight for women to have rightful control of their own bodies. The government should not be the all-mighty decider of what happened to a person’s body. Personally, she believed that making abortion legal would make things safer, reduce the suffering of mothers and babies, and end the panicked, desperate attempts that ended in severe injury or worse, death.

And she wholeheartedly believed in women having autonomy of themselves.

Despite all that, it didn’t make this pill any easier to swallow.

She wanted to be a mother. Someday. Not this soon. How would she finish her education? Who was going to want to help the poor, little, coloured girl who got herself up the duff?

She was barely scraping by with the money she was making. She’d have to take on more jobs, and then summer holidays would be over and she’d be back in school, everyone watching and whispering as her belly grew. She’d be ostracized.

A guitar being strummed on the street below could be heard through the open window. She was alone in the flat. The others were out for the evening.

She’d searched for someone who could help, a doctor willing to look the other way, finding no viable option that she could afford, save for laying down on a tarp in a dirty backstreet. Frantic and desperate, she had asked around, _“Please, tell me what you know.”_

Reaching for the bottle of gin pilfered from the cabinet above the sink, she tipped it back in an unsuccessful attempt to steady her nerves.

Vision blurry with unshed tears, the world around her narrowed until all she could see was her stomach, the little thing inside of her that she was supposed to love and protect. All hope left her, and she fell into sobs, heartbroken and hysterical.

A glance up revealed her basket of knitting that sat on the windowsill, painting a picture of innocence and domesticity.

With shaking hands, she wrapped her fingers around the needles resting in a ball of colourful yarn. She’d been using it to make hats and socks for the homeless people she'd befriended. It sometimes got cold at night, especially down by the water, under the bridges.

Pulling the needles free, trying to remember everything she'd heard on the grapevine, she tripped towards the washroom—more scared and alone than she had ever felt.

Saying a prayer for the life she was about to take, she fumbled with the handle on the door and stumbled in.

* * *

 

A chill had settled in the Bay Area, the air heavy with clouds of almost rain. Draco shoved his hands in his pockets as he turned the corner and strode up the busy street, cursing under his breath when some idiot kid on a skateboard nearly clipped him.

Spotting the building he was looking for, he ducked inside, boots thudding against the ground and echoing through the stairwell. He arrived at the door to apartment No. 5, hoping he correctly recalled the address Hermione’s friend had given him and taking a steadying breath before raising a hand to knock. He waited with no small amount of nerves, kicking at a lonely pebble and sending it skidding across the hall.

On the third go-round, he was starting to get cross. No one was answering, and his knuckles were smarting. He'd been knocking for what felt like centuries.

With a frustrated sigh, he turned to leave. Before he reached the stairs, apprehension settled in his stomach. He didn't much believe in intuition, far preferring facts and logic to a ‘gut feeling’, but there was something about the icicles suddenly running up his back that spelt foreboding. He could feel it. Something was wrong.

With swift steps, he was back in front of door No. 5, jiggling the knob and finding it unlocked, adrenaline flooding his body in anticipation of whatever it was on the other side of the door.

He was not prepared for what he found.

The apartment was empty, door to the bathroom open just a crack. As he got closer, the scent of copper filled his nose.

He shouldered open the door, only to freeze at the sight in front of him.

Red. It was everywhere. It was all he could see. Garish, violent, and terrifying.

Hermione sat crumpled in the bathtub, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, her skin a stark contrast against the porcelain. There was blood slowly dripping down the drain, smeared on her thighs, feet, hands. He'd never seen so much blood.

She didn’t look up when he walked through the doorway, her eyes glassy and staring ahead at nothing. If it weren't for her shallow breaths, he might’ve thought her dead.  
  
Swallowing the bile that threatened to escape, he fell to his knees beside the tub, gripping her shoulders and attempting to shake her to a more alive state.  
  
“Hermione,” he rasped, for he couldn’t seem to find his louder voice, the lump in his throat fighting his ability to speak properly.

She remained unresponsive. She didn’t even blink, her eyes still looking empty and dull. His own breaths began coming out as fast puffs, the number of his inhales much greater than that of his exhales.  
  
He needed to calm the fuck down and think about what he could and should do.  
  
Taking her to a hospital would be catastrophic. It might just mean their end. Everyone would turn on them and arrest them. What she’d just done was illegal and wrong, in the eyes of the law. Hospitals meant grave danger for both of them.  
  
For the smallest of moments, in pure panic, Draco thought of rushing to his feet and running without looking back, but reason quickly returned and he knew he couldn't. The image of her at this moment would haunt him for the rest of his life.  
  
He wasn’t going to leave her. He was going to do everything to save her.  
  
But there was nothing he could do.  
  
Draco let out a frustrated whine, harshly tugging at his hair. There must be something. There must be a reason for how he’d found her alive and not dead. He was meant to save her.  
  
If only he’d just taken the time to study basic first aid as his godfather suggested. If he had, maybe he would be patching her up by now and not sitting around the tub—  
  
“Fuck,” he uttered, realizing how much of an idiot he was.  
  
Severus Snape was a close friend of his mother’s. A retired trauma surgeon, he was the one who’d assisted his mother in giving birth to Draco. In gratitude, his mom dubbed the man his godfather and ever since then, Draco had always been able to turn to him whenever he got in some sort of trouble. Like the time he’d gotten into a fight in high school and he’d asked Severus to talk with the principal instead of his parents, or when he’d gotten into an illegal gambling game and Severus was the one who paid his debts for him, or all those times he’d gotten sick when his parents were away and Severus was the one who’d taken care of him.  
  
When Severus had left the country to work abroad a few years ago, Draco found himself alone and trapped within his own home, not having his godfather’s house as an excuse for an overnight escape anymore. He was glad that he was all done with that now, that he found the man in the same house after all these years and was able to ask him for help.  
  
Severus was the only person who could and would help Hermione without detailing the encounter to the police.  
  


* * *

Sitting in a chair in Severus' drafty hallway, Draco heard familiar, heavy footsteps walking towards him.  
  
“She’s alive,” the gravelly voice of his godfather announced after what seemed to be hours of working on Hermione. “The baby is, too.”  
  
Draco let his shoulders sag in relief as his godfather’s words repeated themselves in his mind.  
  
_Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive.  
  
_Through the open door, he chanced a glance at the bed where she lay sleeping in peace. She was alive and their baby as well. How was that possible? _  
  
_“You should be grateful,” his godfather sneered, spitting the words at him like venom.  
  
“I am.” And that was the truth, maybe even the most honest thing he’d ever said followed by the second. “Thank you.”  
  
His godfather scoffed, dismissing his appreciation. “Out of all the stupid things you’ve done in your life, impregnating a girl and making her perform an abortion on herself has got to be the worst one yet.”  
  
“I didn’t—” Draco began, frowning. “I never told her to do it by herself.”  
  
“Your parents will be—”  
  
“I don’t care,” he interjected.  
  
Silence ensued for a short while before his godfather spoke up once again, his tone as jarring as ever, “It’s a miracle that both the girl and your spawn survived. I trust you’ve learned some things after this.”  
  
He couldn’t help the grin that broke out his face. “Didn’t know that you do miracles now.”  
  
Severus stared at him in the same way he always did when he wanted Draco to feel a little remorseful for whatever it was that he’d done, and his mirth faded as quickly as it came. “Stop making rash and idiotic decisions.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“And stop coming to my home after you’ve done something rash and idiotic and expecting me to fix your problems for you. For once in your life, learn how to think for yourself, Draco.”  
  
“I am thinking for myself—now, that is.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Draco attempted a half-smile. “I’ve missed you.”  
  
His godfather snorted, turning to leave the room. “I’ll be back later.”  
  
The way Severus practically ran off to the exit without so much as a goodbye—always uncomfortable with the slightest show of emotion—made him laugh for the first time in a while.

* * *

   
“The baby’s alive,” he murmured to Hermione shortly after she’d awoken.  
  
Her eyes widened in shock, one of her hands making its way on top of her stomach. “How?”  
  
Draco shook his head, his eyelids suddenly feeling heavy. He was tired and couldn’t find it in himself to explain in great detail. “You’re alright. The baby’s alright.”  
  
 “But—”  
  
“Why did you do it?”  
  
Hermione’s eyes fell to her stomach, the hand on there now rubbing circles. “I... I thought that it was the best thing for me to do because—because I’m... because I thought that you already left and that I was... alone.”  
  
Draco released a sigh, feeling the weight of everything that had transpired. “You should’ve told me before you—before you tried to do it by yourself.”  
  
“I thought you were already gone.”  
  
“You should’ve told me.”  
  
She slowly nodded, still fixated on her stomach. “I’m sorry.”  
  
He shrugged the apology off. “You’re alive. Both of you are.”  
  
“I’m sorry about—about what happened in your tent as well,” she started. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. It’s your decision.”  
  
“I’m sorry for yelling,” he offered.  
  
Draco knew she accepted his apology when she reached for his hand and placed it on top of her stomach. Her fingers intertwined with his as he imitated the circling motions she’d done a few moments ago.  
  
“Do you think they’ll look like you?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter what they look like,” he said. “I’ll make a beautiful painting out of them either way.”  
  
“I can’t believe it,” whispered Hermione, smiling slightly even as emotion made her voice shaky. “They must be holding on really tightly in there.”  
  
“They must be a miracle,” he whispered back, repeating his godfather’s earlier words.  
  
She sobbed out a laugh, tears streaming down her face. “I’ve always needed a miracle.”  
  
He let out a chuckle, tears of his own building up in his eyes. “Me too.”

* * *

Hermione sat in the beat-up rocking chair she found last week at a yard sale, the gentle back and forth lulling her to sleep. The knitting she held in her hands slowly dropped to rest on her belly, round with six months of growth. At the movement, her eyes fluttered open, gaze landing on the teeny, tiny, rainbow coloured booties that were beginning to take shape. 

She marvelled at their diminutive size, finding it hard to imagine a human being who’d be small enough to fit them. 

When school started up again, she’d gotten a gig entering data for a research company, working in the evenings at an office building downtown, clacking away at a typewriter. It was mind-numbing work but paid just enough for her to be able to rent a little flat not far from campus, no longer having to use student housing. 

Across the room, Draco was at the stove, attempting to rustle up some sort of supper.

He had spent the weekend sleeping on her couch. Tomorrow afternoon, he’d report to the Oakland Base, and in a blink he would be far away, leaving her alone to birth and raise a baby. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she wasn’t afraid. Fate had decided this little baby was meant to be hers, a life to guide and keep safe. She’d been given a second chance. She would be the kind of mother she wished for when she was young.

They still disagreed. Draco was a blasted, stubborn soul set on doing what he felt he was called to do. She still attended protests and led committees at the university, determined to find a path to peace without violence and destruction. They’d had long talks, whenever they had the chance, making a conscious effort to see through the other’s eyes.

Hermione had come to the conclusion that you didn’t have to agree with someone to understand them. They were working on a foundation of companionship, deciding together that they needed to be friends in order to be parents.

Tomorrow would mark the first day of the new year. A new beginning. Tonight there’d be fireworks and people drinking in the parks.

As she stared at the back of the man in her kitchen—swearing like a sailor when he burnt himself on the skillet—she thought about the path they were on. They had a long way to go, the two of them, both individually and together. The world was changing, and its inhabitants had to adapt or be left behind. There were hard times ahead. 

But Hermione was no stranger to hard times.

She would weather the coming storm the way she always had—with grit and a little luck.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are highly appreciated!


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